


Pandemonium - Luke & Vader One-Shots

by DotColorful



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Movie: Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Movie: Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Skywalker Family Drama (Star Wars), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DotColorful/pseuds/DotColorful
Summary: A collection of Vader and Luke One-Shots. Expect a lot of whump and angst.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 42
Kudos: 134





	1. I've Got You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke wakes up on a Star Destroyer after the Battle of Endor, disoriented and in pain. He soon needs some help from Vader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I've originally written this story for the Whumptober 2020 challenge, but then I decided I'm not gonna participate in it this year, so I'm posting this in a one-shot collection instead. This one was done for the "I've Got You" - Carry/Support/Enemy to Caretaker theme/prompts. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!

Luke woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented and in pain. There was a dull throbbing in his limbs, and he felt as if someone had stuffed his mouth and throat with thick ash. He coughed against it, gasping for air, but everything was sticky and painful, unable to pass through his damaged throat. 

The image before his eyes was blurry, but Luke could still make out the black, polished walls, the elegant furniture, and the soft bed he was lying on. There was light bleeding through a large viewport to his right; dully, Luke shifted his gaze, regarding the image behind the glass. His eyes barely noticed it, though, barely made out the shapes outside. There were stars behind the viewport, but the boy didn’t see them - didn’t see anything, not even the greatest start of them all.

The Death Star. 

His brain fuzzy and his sight still blurry, he tried to get up, tried to move away from the bed. He was disoriented and in pain, unaware of what had happened and unaware of what was yet to come. His mouth felt dry and Luke wished he could just have a little bit of water, a little bit of liquid to quench his thirst. 

Numbly, he stood up and groaned as a wave of nausea immediately passed through him. In one moment, his knees buckled and he fell down, vomiting as his hands touched the ground. 

For a few seconds, he simply regarded the poodle of bile before him, trying to understand what was happening. There was a blur of thoughts in his brain, a useless collection of memories with no connection between them. All he knew that something terrible had happened, and that he was thirsty and hurt, and his throat was raw and dry from screaming, because something was wrong, because he had been…

...tortured. 

He had been tortured by the Emperor.

And his father had just stood by, watching. His father did not save him. 

A single tear fell past his temple as his heart clenched with an unbearable feeling of abandonment. He knew this could happen, he was prepared to save his father or die, but to actually live through it…

…to actually be rejected, even in death, by his own sire...

…was too much, was…

**No.**

He would not dwell on it - he couldn’t. Somehow, he was still alive, and he still had the chance to escape and rejoin the Alliance. His father could not be turned - he understood that now - but there were still people he could help, and he just had to escape…

Another wave of nausea passed through him; again, he gagged. He knew he desperately needed water - his dehydrated brain was practically  _ begging _ him to drink - but there was nothing to quench his thirst in his sight. 

Unless…

Looking up from the poodle of bile, his eyes skimmed around the walls, immediately noticing a pair of transparent, dark doors. 

The refresher. 

Water. 

Painfully, he got up, trying to keep his body upright. Everything was agonizing, but what hurt more than anything was the lack of water, and he needed to get it, he needed to get it now…

He walked slowly, stumbling, gasping heavily as exertion shook his lungs. His body was drenched in sweat and blood; his skin smelled of burnt flesh. His limbs felt heavy and paralyzed, and all touch felt dull and faint. He vaguely paid attention to the questions in his mind.

What had happened? 

Why had he lived, why was he  _ allowed  _ to live? 

Why was the Death Star still there, why had the rebels failed?

**Why did his father leave him to die?**

He didn’t know the answers to those questions; didn’t know anything that would explain his survival. What mattered now was only water, only the thing that could save him now.

But the heaviness in his body was growing, and the pain was becoming more and more strong, and it was so hard to hold on—

But the doors were almost there, almost within the reach of his arm—

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe now, everything hurt so much—

_ You’ve been electrocuted _ , he thought.  _ Your flesh had been burned. Your wounds are infected. _

_ You’re going to die.  _

Stumbling, he pushed the refresher’s door, immediately looking at the sink before him.

There was pain in his body, but the water was so close—

Just a couple of steps more—

Almost there—

**Ahhh!**

His knees buckled and he collapsed, head banging against the bathroom floor. A voiceless scream was ripped from his throat, leaving his lungs spamming in pain. His body curled as he tried to control the trembling in his muscles, but there was nothing that could stop the cold tremors passing through him and the furious twitching of his arms. There was a strange sound around him - something that resembled airless gasps - and dully, he realized that it was him who was struggling to breathe.

Not long now…

No, no, he needed to get up--

He had to go, he had to fight--

He was going to die--

A violent tremor passed through his body and again; he cried out. His chest was on fire, and he felt as if he was being burned alive. It was excruciating, the worst pain he’d ever felt, and he wished someone would just make it stop--

His bruised lips moved, trying to speak, trying to call out…-

_ Father! _

...but no words left his mouth. 

He needed to get up. 

He got on his hands and knees, his body heavy, his muscles stuck--

There was a moment of hope, a moment of euphoric relief as he lifted his torso off the ground; sweat ran down the clammy skin of his face as he heavily breathed out. It was working, he was going to get up, he was going to run--

And then his knees buckled once again, and the world went  **black** . 

***

**_Bring me Skywalker_ ** , his master had said mere minutes ago as he kneeled before him like an obedient  _ slave _ . There had been disgust in his own voice as he had grunt out ‘yes, master’, the words tasting like bile.

**Bring me Skywalker.**

Was Luke nothing more than a tool? An object to be controlled or killed? 

**Bring me Skywalker.**

Yes, he was. The Emperor had proved that much when he had tortured the boy  _ almost to death _ , murdering the child right before his father’s eyes. 

And then he had let him go, and somehow that was even worse, because it meant there wouldn’t be an end to the boy’s torment, no death to save him from what was to come. 

In truth, Vader couldn’t remember what had happened then; his memories were twisted and foggy, his mind unable to reconstruct the events that had brought so much pain to his child. He could vaguely recall the battle, the terrible screams of the torture, and his inability to save the boy who he should have loved. He remembered the pleas, the trembling hand reaching for him, and the begging in his son’s voice. He remembered the way he had curled on the floor when he was given a brief respite, only to be struck again and promised a painful death. He remembered the way the screams had weakened, the breathing went slow and shallow, the way the convulsions had turned into barely visible twitches. He could vaguely recall the moment his master had withdrawn the lighting, the way his son had laid motionless on the floor.  _ “He had learned his lesson,” _ Palpatine had said, before adding _ “Guards, take him away.” _ He remembered numbly watching red-robed figures approach them and lift his son; the boy had been limp in their grasp, unconscious as they had taken him by his shoulders and carried him away.

And still, Vader had stood.

He had not moved. 

The Emperor had been speaking to him then, but he couldn’t remember much of that either. There had been an ingenuine concern and then impatient demands, and he had been led out of the Throne Room and flown away from the Death Star. His hand had been replaced and his life-support system had been fixed, but he hadn’t registered it, hadn’t noticed that anything had happened ever since the boy had been struck by lightning and crumbled to the ground.

But some time had passed. He remembered better now. 

**Bring me Skywalker.**

It’s been three days since their fight. 

The rebels had lost. 

The Death Star had not been blown. The Empire had remained.

And Luke,  _ his son, his tortured son _ , had been kept in the quarters on a Star Destroyer at the Emperor’s request. The boy was not a mere prisoner, but a slave to the Dark, a poor child that didn’t know what was yet to come.

His son had not yet regained consciousness, but when he did, he would wake up to a nightmare.

And then he would turn, or he would die.

**Bring me Skywalker.**

So it was time.

He walked to Luke’s quarters, feeling him awake, dreading their first encounter after the battle. What would he say -  _ how could he _ say anything after he had refused to help his son, after he had left him to die? 

He reached the boy’s room and waved a hand, opening the heavy doors. The space was elegantly-furnished, and yet there was an odd smell hanging in the air, a terrible odor of sweat, burnt flesh, and…

...bile.

A spark of concern appeared in his mind but he squashed it, instead quickly walking forward and approaching the bed his son had been left on. He leaned over it, reaching out with his hand to wake the boy up, only to realize that it was empty.

His son wasn’t there. 

His son wasn’t in the room.

“Luke?” He asked.

The boy didn’t answer him. The air was heavy with silence as he looked around the quarters, trying to locate his son. The boy couldn’t have escaped - it was impossible, especially in his weakened state—

“...nhh..agh..” 

The sound was quiet - so quiet that Vader would not have heard it if not for the advanced sound detectors his suit had. It was coming from the bathroom and immediately, he headed in its direction, already knowing what he would see and yet refusing that very thought.

And yet, as he reached the door, he realized

that he

was right. 

His son lay on the floor, his knees curled up so close to his trembling body that they were almost touching his chin. His arms were pressed against his chest, bruised fists clutching weakly at the material of his black suit. There was sweat soaking his charred clothes; the boy’s pale forehead was marked with the same beads of perspiration as well. He was utterly silent, save for the faint sound of his labored, erratic breaths, his lungs spasming upon inhaling the dry air. Although his eyes were open, the boy did not look at Vader when he had entered the room - instead, his gaze was fixed on the floor beneath his cheek, his hot breath leaving misty stains on the black tiles. 

He walked up to the boy slowly, unsurely, almost afraid that his presence alone could further harm his son. Then, carefully, he lowered himself to one knee, extending his arm and putting a careful hand on the young man’s shoulder. The boy flinched underneath his touch - his feverish brain was still terrified, still fearing his father after their last encounter. Immediately, Vader gripped his arm tighter in what was meant to be a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s alright,” he soothed, although there was cold fear gripping his heart. Gently, he lowered his hand, putting it underneath Luke’s right shoulder - the one pressed firmly against the ground. His son’s breathing hitched, but still, no words left his mouth, and Vader dully observed that his empty gaze did not move from the floor. 

“Luke,” he tried, more urgent this time. His son was limp in his arms, allowing Vader to touch him even though there had been nothing but lightsabers crossed between them mere days ago. “You need to get up.” 

Gently but firmly, he grasped his son’s left shoulder with his free hand and lifted the boy’s torso off the ground. Luke’s breathing hitched as his father pulled him up into a sitting position, and his head fell limply against the Dark Lord’s knees. His arms flailed as they blindly looked for support, eventually finding Vader’s thighs; the boy wrapped his trembling arms around them and leaned heavily against his armored legs, exhaling air with a trembling sigh. Vader put a steadying hand on the young man’s back before moving his hands under Luke’s armpits, slowly pulling his son up. The boy’s legs shook as he put weight on them, and the Dark Lord curled his arms around his son even tighter, trying to offer him enough support to stand up. 

“Good,” he praised as Luke eventually managed to remain on his feet, though his knees were still buckling and his body was leaning heavily against Vader’s armored bulk. “We will walk to your bed now.” 

There was a slight nod against his shoulder, and then the boy put one foot forward, clutching at Vader’s arms with all his strength. Slowly,  _ agonizingly slowly _ , they managed to exit the bathroom, all the while Luke was relying on his father to support his weight. 

Finally, they reached the boy’s bed, and Vader helped his son to lie down, slowly lowering him on the mattress. Luke’s head fell to the side, his body exhausted after the short walk. His chest was heaving with effort, and there was strain in his disoriented eyes. Vader stood above him for a few moments, simply regarding the pained expression on his face, before his eyes moved down to look at the burns on Luke’s hands. 

There must have been extensive damage left by the lightning, the Dark Lord realized as he took in the scarred tissue covering his son’s palms. With dread, he looked at the boy’s chest, taking in the charred jacket and ash covering the black fabric. How did his skin look underneath those clothes? Was it also burned, covered in angry dark lines marking the lightning's path? Vader’s own body had borne such scars; though he hadn’t been exposed to Count Dooku’s dark powers much, the electricity the Sith had used against him during their first fight had immediately left painful marks. Those scars, although they had quickly become faint, served as a reminder for the rest of his--  _ Anakin’s _ life. He’d learned the hard way to always think before he acted, and the pain from that brief electric shock had been forever etched in his mind. 

But his son hadn’t been that lucky - his son had been exposed to the terrible force of the lightning for far longer than Vader had anyone seen withstand it before. He could still remember his child pained screams, the hoarse pleas as Luke begged his father to save his life. 

And Vader had just stood there, not moving, not helping, not doing anything to aid his child. Instead, he’d allowed his son’s torment, allowed the boy to experience the worst pain the Sith had ever felt in his life. 

The pain of being burned alive. 

Slowly, he leaned over Luke’s injured body, his gloved hands fumbling with the front of his jacket. Beneath him, the boy shuddered, his pained blue eyes finally looking up. 

“...father…” he whispered, his voice raspy and damaged. There were tears in his eyes, and Vader couldn’t tell if they were a result of pain or his confusion and turmoil. He reached out with one hand and cupped his son’s cheek, allowing the boy to rest against it as his head lolled. 

“I need to see the damage,” he explained, slowly pulling the upper part of the jacket down, revealing the skin underneath. 

Horror filled his eyes at the sight. The boy’s chest was raw and swollen, covered in extensive burns and white blisters. There was fluid oozing from the wounds, mixing with sweat and flowing down his skin in lazy trails. Parts of his tissue were charred and peeling off, covering his bloodied chest like flakes of white snow. There were lines on his skin, sharp and ashen-black, forming a lightning pattern on his body and spreading across his skin like a dark web. 

Bile rose in Vader’s throat as his hand hovered above the boy’s chest, suddenly unsure what to do. The boy looked…  _ almost dead  _ \- his body resembled that of a slaughtered man, almost as if an animal had ripped his flesh apart and left him to die. His burns were infected, disease spreading through him with an agonizing speed, and for the first time in many years, the Dark Lord felt helpless and unable to form any coherent thought to help the boy. 

A sudden sob interrupted his train of thought and Vader looked down sharply, noticing his Luke's face was scrunched up in a silent cry. 

“...cold…” the boy whispered, his eyes staring at the Dark Lord with a pleading look. 

The boy was shivering, Vader noticed, his raw skin now exposed to the cool air. 

He needed to act. He needed to act fast. 

"I need to remove the jacket," he informed his son. Something reassembling a grimace appeared on the boy's face at that, and Vader couldn't tell whether it was due to pain or the very idea that his father would do something as… parental as that. 

But then, the boy nodded, and a soft look of resignation replaced the grimace on his face. Gently, Vader put a hand underneath Luke's back and helped him into a sitting position. 

"...ahh.." his son gasped halfway up and Vader froze, unable to decide what to do. The boy's face was twisted in pain; it became apparent very quickly that he was trying to hold back a scream. 

"...I'm...fine…" he got out eventually, voice hoarse and strained. Tears of effort leaked from his eyes; underneath, however, was a look of determination. 

Vader grasped Luke's jacket and pulled it up, working it over the boy's wounded arms. His son hissed but didn't otherwise react, allowing his father to help him. Then, gently, he lowered the boy back on the bed, trying to ignore the now perfectly visible burns and blisters. 

He strode to the refresher, almost automatically grabbing a towel and wetting it with cool water, before returning to the bed his son lay on. 

"Stay still," he instructed. Again, the boy nodded; his pained eyes observed him dully, not moving as his father pressed the cool cloth against the burns. The fabric was cold against his skin and slowly, the boy relaxed, focusing on its soothing effect. 

They stayed like this for several minutes. Slowly, Luke’s breathing slowed, muscles relaxed, drops of sweat stopped sliding down his forehead. The boy’s eyes were open for the whole time, but he did not look at Vader once - instead, his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere above him, somewhere on the ceiling, and remained unmoving, unblinking. 

Then, finally, his eyes fluttered close. There was a quiet sigh, and then the blonde head lolled, resting softly against the pillow. 

Luke fell unconscious. 

Vader looked at him - he looked at him for a  _ very  _ long time. First, he took in the boyish features - the small nose, the parted lips, the soft cleft in the chin. But, although Luke’s face looked young, his appearance was not one of a healthy child. There were bruises on his skin - lacerations, burns, and cuts - and sweat was covering his soft features. Slowly, gently, Vader brushed a damp strand of hair aside, before resting his gloved hand on the young man’s forehead, feeling the feverish skin underneath. 

He’d allowed this.

He’d allowed this to be done.

There was no mercy for him - no salvation for the pain he had caused. He had hurt many, killed many, but most importantly, he had failed to protect those whom he had loved. 

And Luke?

Had he ever loved him?

Had he ever loved him the way he loved those who he had killed in the past?

_ Yes. _

_ He had. _

He knew that now. 

He’d been denying it ever since Luke surrendered to him on Endor. Or no,  _ no _ , it was even earlier than that. Ever since he had seen the boy in the carbonite chamber, since he had looked at his son’s face for the first time, ever since he had  _ cut off the boy’s hand _ \- he had denied that love. He had told himself, again and again, that he did not care - that he did not  _ love _ . Attachments were a weakness - he had learned that lesson as a Jedi, and he had learned it well. 

And yet, the Jedi had been wrong. 

Just like the Sith had. 

Again, he looked at Luke’s sleeping face; mesmerized, he marveled at the beauty of the boy who was his son, the boy who was his flesh and blood. The lightning marks were still on his chest - still painful, still reminding Luke of his father’s  _ love _ .

The boy didn’t deserve him. 

And yet, he had no choice. There was nothing he could do - nothing but accept that his father was a monster. 

Except the boy had done it - had accepted Vader as his sire - but there had always been hope in those bright blue eyes. 

The boy had been hopeful that he would bring his father back. 

And, not for the first time, the boy had been right. Suddenly, Vader felt the urge to tell him, the urge to make his son proud. 

So, leaning over the injured body, extending a gloved hand and cupping the boy’s pale cheek, he whispered as quietly as the vocoder would allow him:

“It’s alright, my son. I’m… here. **I’m back** ” 


	2. Crying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bespin AU. Luke jumps on Bespin but his father doesn't allow him to fall. the two have an emotional...moment, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another story that was originally written for Whumptober 2020 - more specifically, for day 11 - Psych 101 (struggling, crying). I hope you enjoy it!

He doesn’t fall. 

There’s an invisible force dragging his body up, pulling him against the wishes of the relentless Bespin winds. His body is in pain, his hand - _his stump_ \- burning with agony. He doesn’t understand what is happening, but the throbbing sensation is his limbs and his torn clothes, soaked with sweat and blood, are all he needs to know. 

**_There’s no escape._ **

And still, his body is going up, dragged towards Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith, the man who tortured his friends, the man who is his--

**No! No, no, no…**

**...leave…**

**LET ME GO!**

There’s a cold touch on his arm now - a hold so very strong, a gloved fist. His battered body is pulled back on the platform, back above the fatal drop, and the strong hand drags him forward. He stumbles, unable to stand properly on the catwalk; his feet are dangling uselessly as he falls forward, jostling at Vader’s arm. The man grunts and pulls him upright, forcing Luke to stand right before the Sith’s terrifying bulk. 

The Dark Lord holds his arms tightly, preventing him from falling. Luke refuses to look up - refuses to look at _this monster’s_ mask. Instead, he keeps his gaze on the metal grating underneath Vader’s boots. 

**Not true, impossible…**

**Not my father…**

**Please, not my father…**

The Dark Lord is speaking to him now, but Luke doesn’t understand. The grumbled words leave his ears before he can even hear them; the world around him is quiet. There’s nothing but high-pitched ringing in his ears, nothing than agony in his mind, and the terrible words he knows are true--

**No!**

**Please, no!**

**My father… my hero, my father…**

**Wanted to be like him…**

**My father…**

**Vader, my father…**

Again, he hears the Dark Lord’s voice - he’s speaking louder now.

“...must understand…”

“...safe...”

“come with me…”

Slowly, he raises his eyes. His gaze finds the mask and he stares at it dully, still not understanding. How can this man, this menace who is holding him, be his father? 

**He can’t, because he’s not, because he’s...**

Suddenly, Vader stops talking. There’s a moment of silence between them, a moment of stillness. They simply stare at one another, but there’s something wrong, because Luke knows he didn’t hear something his _father_ had said…

And then, he speaks again. 

“Luke.”

His heart stops at those words. His body stills. 

And the voice speaks again.

“Son.”

Panic enters his mind at that, but he doesn’t yet feel it. It is only when the Dark Lord pulls again at his arm, trying to take him… _somewhere_ , that he hears the words, that he understands their meaning. In one, sharp movement, he yanks his shoulder back, trying to free himself from Vader’s grip. 

“No!” he screams, his voice raw. “No, let me go!” 

_I am not your son!_

He trashes wildly now, trying to escape, because it’s not true, it’s impossible...

The voice is there again; he doesn’t hear. “No!” he screams again, more desperate this time. “Don’t touch me, let me--”

He shakes his head, refusing to let Vader touch him. His body trembles and still, he tries to yank his hand back. But the vice grip is unyielding, and he’s too weak to pull away, and he just wants this to stop...

The winds howl around them, pull at his clothes, try to drag him down. 

And still, he tries. 

Suddenly, Vader lets go of his hand; yet it’s too late when Luke realizes he’s free. It is only when his body starts falling back that he understands - understands that he’d managed to rip his arm from Vader’s grip. But he’s unprepared, and he simply falls down, landing on his knees and elbows.

His **elbow**. 

There’s a wet shout ripped from his throat as his body hits the ground and his severed arm takes his weight. The metal grating sinks into his raw flesh as if it was made out of butter, and he howls, spitting foam and bile from his mouth. It’s too much, and everything hurts, and he knows he’s going to die…

**Ben, why didn’t you tell me…**

**My father… my hero…**

**The Jedi, my father...**

The image before his eyes blurs; the world is black now. Blindly, he pulls his body up and gets on his knees. His head is dizzy from the pain, his senses dull from confusion. He cradles his stump to his chest like a newborn baby, and he simply waits on his knees, feeling the Dark Lord standing behind him.

**Anakin Skywalker…**

**My father…**

And suddenly, the gloved hand is on his shoulder, heavy and yet light, gentle and soft to the touch. 

Silence. 

And then:

“My child.”

**Son. Child.**

The Dark Lord sinks to his knees beside him, his gloved hand still on Luke’s back. Slowly, he wraps his arms around his son’s trembling form. His battered body is limp in Vader’s embrace, allowing him to cradle his body to his armored chest. Still, he shivers; still, he doesn’t look up. His father notices that; his mechanic arms wrap around him tighter, so tight that a panicked termor goes through his spine. 

“Hush,” his father says. “My child.”

Luke nods, slightly. It’s not a gesture of acceptance - not yet, not when he’s just learned the truth and his mind cries at him not to believe it. But it _is_ a sign of agreement, of permission for his father to comfort him. Luke accepts the strong hands around his body, the comforting words whispered to him while he unconsciously clings to the man he’s always wanted to know. 

His father’s heavy arm leaves his shoulder and reaches for his face. With a gloved finger, he wipes away the blood that had flown from his nostril, and then slowly, the hand slides down, caressing his cheek.

A sob escapes Luke’s throat at that. 

It’s too much, he doesn’t understand…-

He exhales his breath with a cry. 

His father holds him as he sobs, embraces him as his shoulders shake. Tears fall down his cheeks as he wails in agonized confusion, trembling against the armored chest. The baritone voice says something but again, it’s muffled. He can’t hear it - can do nothing but cry. 

Suddenly exhausted, he allows his head to fall against his father’s arm. The gloved hands tighten around his body at that, gently stroking his back in a comforting manner. He squeezes his eyes, feeling more tears slid past his temples. 

**It’s impossible, it’s true, it’s impossible...**

The winds howl above them as they kneel, their bodies pressed together and entwined. 

Luke’s vision is blurry, and tremors are running down his back. 

There’s blood falling from his wounds, soaking his clothes and mixing with sweat.

His left hand is in pain. 

His right hand is gone. 

There’s a gloved hand on his back - a hand of his worst enemy, a hand of the man who had brutalized him and took away everything he ever had.

The world is nothing but pain, nothing but suffering, and it’s all impossible, all too much…

He can’t bear it, he hates it, he wishes he could just go back…

And somehow…

...somehow…

...that is the happiest moment of his life. 


	3. The Catwalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke gets injured when he falls from the catwalk in the Emperor's throne room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This idea has been in my head for some time now, and I finally decided to finish it and post it. TW for some graphic descriptions of injuries. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy it!

“Your thoughts betray you, Father. I feel the good in you - the conflict.”

The words sounded more certain than he felt, though he managed to hide it well. Yes, he could feel his father’s conflict… but so could he sense his own turmoil. The Dark Side was swirling around them, threatening to extinguish the light Luke carried within the Force.

And yet, as he looked down at Vader from where he stood on the catwalk, he felt strong. At peace. In control.

“There is no conflict,” he heard his father respond. Luke had to suppress his smirk at the words, at how untrue they sounded. _But of course there is_ , he thought silently. _And you, father, can feel it too._

“You couldn’t bring yourself to kill me before and I don’t believe you’ll destroy me now,” he said out loud, flinching slightly as Vader raised his lightsaber. He believed those words - he really didn’t think his father would be able to kill him… but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid that his beliefs weren’t enough.

“You underestimate the power of the Dark Side,” Vader responded. “If you will not fight… _then you will meet your destiny._ ”

It happened quickly. He felt his father throw his lightsaber at him even before he saw it and instinctively, he ducked to avoid it. The ruby blade passed by him with a swish, its heated edge missing his neck by barely an inch. There was a short moment of relief as Luke realized he managed to evade the deathly weapon; his muscles eased slightly, a shy smile curling the corners of his lips.

And then he was falling, tumbling down the metal catwalk as Vader’s lightsaber cut through one of the support beams. He yelled, arms flailing in an attempt to get a hold of something; it was futile. The back of his shirt ripped as he slid down the metal grating; distantly, he realized there was something warm trickling down his skin. _Blood_ , maybe, or maybe not, _he didn’t really know--_

\--Another shout escaped his lips as a piece of metal flew by his head, disappearing somewhere beneath him--

And then it stopped.

At first, he just lay there, slowly catching his breath as his body finally hit the floor. There was a dull ache in his limbs, skin already bruising from impact; he ignored it. Suddenly, everything seemed slow - the breath in his nostrils, the beating of his heart, the trembling of his limbs as he lay sprawled on his stomach, cheek plastered to the cold metal floor.

 _Cold_ , he thought, somewhat unconsciously. _Cold, like on Hoth._

_I don’t like Hoth._

_Ben--_

It was the sudden sound of heavy, measured steps that brought him back to reality. He didn’t hear it at first - the noise was muffled, as if someone had stuffed his ears with bacta. But it was there, growing louder and louder, and as Luke heard the hum of a lightsaber join it, he realized the fight was not over yet.

Vader - _his father_ \- was coming.

He needed to hide. _He needed to fight too_ , but that would come later, once he caught his breath. For now, he had to hide, had to give himself time to recover before Vader found him.

Shaking, he reached out with his right arm, trying to crawl…

...and then cried out as the movement tore at his abdomen, painting his vision red. There was… there was something wrong with his stomach, because it hurt more than it should after a mere fall, because there was too much blood staining the front of his shirt that was still pressed against the floor--

Slowly, he turned on his back…

And then _felt_ , more than saw, the bloodied piece of metal sticking out of his stomach.

At first, he just stared at it dully, not really understanding what it all meant. The pain was suddenly distant, as if he hadn’t got hurt at all. Seconds trickled by slowly, in tune with the sound of his father’s steps, but it was all far, far away…

And then it all crashed down on him, the worst agony he’d ever felt tearing down his stomach, and he all but howled in anguish. His abdomen was on fire - _his abdomen was on fire_ \- and he was defenseless and his father was coming--

Weakly, he reached out with a trembling hand. Bloodied fingers wrapped around the metal piece; Luke didn’t even know why he did that. _Leave the piece in_ , he had been taught, _leave it in because it can slow down the bleeding_. But then, did that matter anymore? He would be dead in moments anyway, if not by bleeding out then by his father’s hands. There was no way he could fight back - he couldn’t even stand up, let alone fight. _It was over_ , he realized, a wave of sadness washing over him. He had childishly hoped he would save his father when he’d come here; it was foolish.

Leia had been right.

Now he wouldn’t even have the chance to tell her.

A tear slid down his cheek as he thought of her, of her warm smile and her brown eyes, so full of determination--

But then he heard the sound of Vader’s footsteps stop, and he knew his time had come. Weakly, he turned his head to the side, his body trembling all over. The blurred figure of his father was there, standing right over him, and he couldn’t help but flinch.

...Vader, too, had recoiled. He had thought Luke would hide, would try to attack his father unseen. That would have been wise - and his son was wise, was so very wise, and he would surely think of it--

But he hadn’t, because he was lying sprawled across the floor in a useless heap and not moving. At first, Vader couldn’t understand; it felt wrong to see Luke like that, weak and defenseless. His son had grown so strong - _why wasn’t he fighting back?_

But then, his eyes fell on the bloodied metal piece sticking out of Luke’s stomach and he realized what had happened.

Had realized that his son had been injured during the fall that _he_ had caused.

That the metal piece sticking out of Luke’s abdomen was a part of the support beam that _Vader_ had cut through.

Numbly, he took a step towards his son; instantly, the boy flinched.

“...no…” he whispered, shooting Vader a desperate look. There was moisture in his eyes - tears of pain and fear as he lay prone before his father. Vader didn’t know what Luke was pleading for; he suspected the boy didn’t know either. The plea had been instinctive, his son’s way of voicing his fear--

_**He** had done this._

He had been… prepared for the boy’s death - or at least, so he had thought. He had known that his son would either turn or die, that there was no other way. But he hadn’t… he hadn’t expected this, to have the boy die _by his hand._

Though to be honest, he hadn’t expected Luke to die at all. He had lied to himself, over and over again, that the boy would turn. It was his destiny - as it had been Vader’s. There was no other way. Deep down, he knew that it wasn’t true, that his son would not renounce the way of the Jedi. And yet, he had denied it, because it was easier. Easier than facing the truth, thank acknowledging the fact that the boy did have a meaning for him after all.

And now… now Luke was injured and about to die. Vader - _his own father_ \- had hurt him. This was the boy he had loved ever since he’d learned of Padme’s pregnancy, the baby he had promised to protect all those years ago.

The boy that was now lying at his feet, staring at him numbly as anguish took hold of his body.

Slowly, he kneeled. His son didn’t flinch this time - Vader doubted he could. His hands, devoid of any feeling, slid underneath the boy’s shoulders and lifted his torso.

“Luke.”

The whisper could barely be heard, but Vader was unable to speak any louder. Maybe he didn’t want the Emperor to hear; maybe it was about Luke.

Slowly, the boy’s eyes focused on him with visible difficulty. “ _Father_ ,” he whispered, his voice weak. More tears spilled from his eyes; to Vader’s horror, they mixed with blood that had begun collecting at the corner of Luke’s mouth.

He was running out of time. _They_ were running out of time.

Delicately, he clasped his hands around his son’s and the bloodied piece of metal he was holding. It was difficult to see the wound that way - Luke’s trembling fingers were covering it.

“Move your hands,” he said quietly. It wasn’t gentle, but Luke seemed to be unbothered. Perhaps he knew that it was because of his father’s fear.. or maybe he was in too much pain to notice it.

The boy didn’t obey. His fingers were rigid, frozen around the metal piece. Vader could see them twitch; Luke was making an effort to move them.

But he couldn’t.

Slowly, he brushed against his son’s palm with his own gloved finger, prompting the rigid muscles to relax.

 _I can’t,_ the boy’s voice whispered in his mind. _Father, please, I’m--_

Vader’s throat was constricted, his mind numb. He couldn’t say anything back. His heart ached with the need to calm the boy down, to assure him that everything would be alright… but the words wouldn’t form.

So instead, he placed a gloved hand on Luke’s forehead and brushed against the sweat-covered skin. His son smiled slightly - his unfocused eyes managed to meet Vader’s lenses for a second - and then they blinked close, all air escaping him with a sigh.

The throne room was completely silent as Vader collected the boy into his arms. It was quiet as he walked up the stairs, Luke’s prone form lying limply in his hold, breaths coming out in short gasps. Quiet as Vader looked at the Emperor, his gaze burning through the lenses right into his Master’s soul. Quiet as Palpatine nodded slightly, emotionlessly, responding to his apprentice’s wordless plea. Vader didn’t dwell on it - he would question his Master’s permission to have his son treated later. For now, it didn’t matter. Whatever sinister reason lay behind it would be dealt with once Luke was safe.

 _And he would be,_ Vader decided as he all but run down the stairs, desperate to get to the medical bay. It was not his son’s time yet.

But then, as he recalled the slight shift in the Force when his son had fallen and realized just who had embedded the metal piece in his son’s abdomen…

...he decided that Palpatine would not live to see another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it!
> 
> Ps. Contrary to what my... _usual preferences_ are, Luke does not die at the end of his fic. Vader manages to save him and they live happily ever after. 
> 
> ~~yes sorry I might have gone soft~~


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